


Search and Destroy

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes release after battle is dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Search and Destroy

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to Dr. Bruce Banner.

This time, it was three days before Arthur sought Lancelot out.

The rain, pissing down as per normal, seemed to mock him as he leaned against the open stable door, horses nickering and drips splatting like they always did when it stormed this hard. Lancelot wondered why it seemed anytime after any kind of hard skirmish it would rain like this. Pounding, pouring horrible thick wet stuff that wouldn’t leave you alone, wetting your clothing through to your skin, damp flesh and damp hair and damp fucking everything and he sneezed like an arrow shot, the sound echoing around the stables, scaring a few ravens that had roosted inside, seeking protection.

They screamed in anger and Lancelot shrugged, turning back to the musty dark building, his thoughts on sleeping off his current hangover interrupted by a glowering Roman, his perfectly shaved face shadowed and unreadable in the gloom.

“What?”

Lancelot brushed past the other man when he didn’t answer, and made his way to where his tack sat, ordered and ready for him to begin cleaning it. He sat on a spare stool and lifted his second best bridle, the smoke from the torches that lit the place forcing a cough from his tired lungs. Tired from screaming, tired from weeping for his lost brothers – though that he’d never admit to – tired from shouting at Arthur for a solid day when the other man insisted on taking the blame for one dumb mistake that had cost them both Palomides and Gareth.

They were gone, it was done. Lancelot wiped methodically at the long straps of the bridle and closed his eyes; it was easy to get lost in the pain in his head and easy to get lost in the nasty taste of wine and the two women he’d had the pleasure of in his bed the previous night. He stroked the leather with oil and cloth and did not speak until

Arthur’s broad body was in his space, around him, lifting him by the biceps with his thick hands, shoving him against the wall of a closed stall, breath hot and moist in Lancelot’s ear.

“Ah. _This_ is what.”

Nothing from the other man, save a grunt as Lancelot jerked an elbow into his gut as he turned to face Arthur, his eyes narrowed to glittering chips of jade, Arthur’s hair a wild halo around his craggy face. Lancelot tugged his own tunic over his head, the buttons on its front tearing at his hair, dropping it as he slipped around the corner, finding an open area away from the gusts of wet that flew through the cracks in the ceiling – he would be damned if he let Arthur fuck him while it pissed rain on him.

Sometimes it took them only a few hours to do this – sometimes it took days. Once after a particularly nasty horrid bloody rout that had Lancelot carrying an arrow scar still it had taken Arthur almost ten days to come to him. Lancelot rolled his shoulders, taking note of their stiffness and he sat on the hay strewn ground, his leathers loose and he twisted his lips wryly as Arthur followed as he always did, his own clothing shed as he walked, the boots he wore flung to the side like trash, the clunking they made as they hit the walls forcing a shudder from the old wet wood.

The oil Lancelot had used earlier for his leather tack was in Arthur’s hands, and the other man shot a pointed look at Lancelot’s trousers. 

“You get them off.”

Arthur knelt at Lancelot’s bare feet, and slid his rough hands up Lancelot’s leather encased legs. They trembled – he was exhausted still and his eyes slipped closed, the heat and touch almost enough to force a sigh of want from him – but this wasn’t the time for that.

A bright burst of lightning lit the world and Arthur tugged until Lancelot lifted his hips and the leathers slid off, his ass hitting the rough ground, bits of hay sticking to him. He narrowed his gaze, fingers curling on the dirt packed floor, the shaking in them rivaling the shiver of – whatever it was that Arthur always brought from him – that ripped through his spine. He opened his mouth, vitriol a well nocked arrow, flying with the strength of purpose he was a master at.

“Will there be a time, I wonder, when you don’t use this or me as an outlet for your oh so well timed vengence? Perhaps it might have been better had you been able to find your anger during our fight.”

Arthur’s face compressed and a growl rolled from his lips; he snatched at Lancelot and shoved him, naked and laughing darkly, against the wall, his own naked flanks against Lancelot’s thighs, his oily hands slick and demanding and Lancelot pushed back, turning, grabbing at Arthur’s arms and pushing until the other man slammed into the opposite stall. He caught himself with his hands flat on the wood and stopped, staring with anger that colored his skin the same red as his shuddering length.

“I am always angry then,” he hissed, stepping away from the wall, jerking at Lancelot’s left arm and smashing him into the post that held up the back center of the stables. Lancelot barked another laugh and raised his hands, arching his back and turning from Arthur to settle his curled fingers on the post. He looked over his shoulder.

“Is that your secret?”

Arthur was inside him before he could speak again – Lancelot rolled his hips and met the other man, thrust and parry and he grunted and cursed until Arthur’s hand slid wetly from Lancelot’s hip to his cock, bitten nails teasing at the soft skin under the sharp flesh that strained against Lancelot’s belly.

The Roman possessed him and he took it with sound and fury and he bit his own lip, blood flowing sluggishly as Arthur slammed him time and again into the post, Lancelot’s legs shaking, horseman’s thighs bunched and muscles screaming for relief.

Voices, men, entering the stables as Arthur and his Sarmatian conscript fucked against a wooden strut, bare bodies in plain view.

Arthur’s eyes were squeezed closed, his hands all over Lancelot’s burning body –

Lancelot had a short moment of clarity – the sight of himself swinging from a branch, neck snapped for raping his Roman commander. No matter that he was the one on the receiving end. He spat a curse and rolled – falling as Arthur was disengaged from his body, the two of them scuttling on their knees around the corner, pieces of tack falling around them, the bottle of oil broken and spilled as they managed to crawl into the last stall in the back of the stables, old and obviously not used in many weeks.

Arthur reached for him the moment the stall door swung shut, but the voices came closer and Lancelot clapped his hand over Arthur’s mouth, strong and reedy arms holding the other man clutched to his body, stilling Arthur no matter that he kept trying to kiss Lancelot, to bite him, to do things that forced a grunt that was actually a moan from Lancelot’s swollen mouth.

“…you hear something?”

Oh, _fuck_. Legate Aelius Aquila, of course. Arthur’s possible successor and someone that just _loved_ the Sarmatian cavalry. Lancelot had been on the receiving end of his form of discipline enough that he really didn’t want to face him – not like this. With a sword in his hand, yes. Naked and vulnerable? 

“I’m sure I heard something.”

Footsteps.

Arthur jerked away from Lancelot suddenly, eyes searching Lancelot’s face, worry etching lines and wrinkles in places they had begun to appear regularly. He licked his lips and turned his eyes away from Lancelot’s, watching the door to their hidden stall, hands searching for Excalibur –

“What is this?”

Lancelot dropped his head to his knees; their clothing was strewn about on the floor of the stable, Arthur’s sword leaning against the strut that held Lancelot’s now fallen tack. Arthur sucked in a breath but stayed where he was, perhaps praying to his obscene god that they would be saved. Lancelot made to stand; fuck it. He was Sarmatian and he was cavalry and he wouldn’t cower like a mouse here in the dark with hay stuck to his ass –

“Get this to commander Castus,” the legate said. A soft reply, and the footsteps receded, the Roman’s voice echoing as he walked with whoever was with him to the exit of the building, thoughts on why Arthur’s sword had been left alone without its owner fading with his distance.

Lancelot stood where he was, head sticking up over the short stall door, watching as the hated legate sauntered from the stables into the rain, his crony holding up a cloak over the both of them. Resting his hands on the edge of the stall door, he curled his fingers into the wood, splinters breaking his skin, anger roiling his stomach into one giant knot, no sound save for his racing heart, the scar from the arrow wound he’d been thinking of twinging as he narrowed his dark eyes into shining slits.

Arthur was behind him, the other man topping Lancelot’s height by a few scant inches.

The other man’s large hands covered his own, and Arthur leaned against Lancelot’s back, his sweaty skin sticking to Lancelot, his heart slamming through the strength of his chest into Lancelot’s spine, every beat of Arthur’s heart more precious to Lancelot than –

His legs were nudged apart and Arthur slipped back inside him, Lancelot’s eyes fully closing for a brief second as spiraling pain tripped its way through his buttocks. He clenched, surprised, but Arthur murmured something he couldn’t understand, soft words wiping away the fear of a death he didn’t deserve nor want to die.

He would die at the hands of Woads, or he would die defending his brothers or he would die, as he most likely thought, protecting Arthur and his stupid fucking ideals on the battlefield. A death that befitted his conscripted pathetic life. He would not swing by a rope for loving something he couldn’t help but desire.

His eyes opened and widened as Arthur’s teeth bit gently at his neck, the power and anger of their earlier coupling slowed – he let the other man have his way, Arthur’s fingers wrapping about Lancelot’s cock and sliding slowly –

Arthur froze, then jerked his hips a few times, Lancelot’s name whispered onto the knight’s nape, the brush of air bringing Lancelot to where he’d wanted to be since they’d come off the battlefield, sweating and bloody and dirty and covered in gore and angry, so angry he’d wanted to kill until there was nothing left, save he and Arthur and _them_. Nothing but them and their flesh and hearts and minds as one, as he dreamed sometimes when he was in his cups and restless.

Arthur stayed wrapped around him – Lancelot’s skin puckered from the coolness of the stables, the small torches not doing anything to heat them. Rain rushed and flowed and Lancelot shoved the other man away finally, wincing as Arthur’s body was pushed out of his, their separation something he never wanted but always had to have.

He staggered to where his leathers lay and tugged them on, almost falling once as his hair dipped into his eyes and he tripped over his dropped bridle. A creak of wood –

Arthur joined him, pulling his own discarded black trousers on, his tunic going slowly over his head, hay stuck in his crazy curls. Lancelot thought to remove them, then twisted his mouth as he sat, watching Arthur with eyes filled with hatred, love, anything that was everything – fuck this man and his righteousness and his hands and his lips and his words of Latin that Lancelot couldn’t understand or wanted to.

“We could have been caught,” he finally said, clearing his throat. 

“I know.”

“Don’t you care about your illustrious career?”

“I care about your neck.”

Lancelot canted his head. “I see your brain wasn’t entirely wrapped up in your cock.”

Arthur raised his head, his expression dark, as dark as Lancelot had ever seen it. “Don’t tell me you didn’t want this.” He bent over to retrieve his boots and toed them on, redness flowing to his face, scarlet lighting the grey skin. Rain pounded in time with Lancelot’s thrumming blood.

“I want many things, Arthur. Usually I don’t wait to take them.” He stood and found his own footwear. He slid his boots on and turned to the stall that held his horse, checking on the animal one time before heading stiffly for the doors of the stable, dripping rain that snuck through the roof dropping on his wildly curling hair. He stopped and contemplated the slashing rain in the courtyard.

_I will never understand you_ rolled off his tongue in his mother language; Arthur was next to him but did not ask him to explain.

They dashed across the mud strewn courtyard, soaked instantly, slipping on the wet bricks that lead to the barracks. Lancelot shook himself off like a dog; water sprayed everywhere, the droplets sizzling on the dirty smoking torches in their sconces. He wanted to laugh at the image; _Sarmatian dog_ tearing through his own brain, the image of a whip and too many times in the stocks aching, turning the roiling pit of his gut into a burning brand.

He headed toward his rooms, pausing as Arthur found his own door.

Lancelot caught Arthur’s gaze and held it, a moment, forever, thanking any kind of deity that this man was still alive and still wanted him and still could take a single breath or word or second and make Lancelot remember there were things about this life he loved. No matter that Lancelot’s brothers died for his cause and Lancelot himself had been close to death’s door for times enough.

No matter that he found himself, each time they did this, wondering at his own stupidity, hating himself for trusting this Roman man that would one day be the cause of his death. He blinked, and Arthur dropped his gaze to look at the sword that lay leaned against his door, Excalibur delivered safe and sound to its master’s home.

“It all comes down to that, doesn’t it?”

Arthur nodded in answer, touching the sword, picking it up, both of their faces reflected in its length, opposite sides. They stood in tandem, silent.

Lancelot turned and his boot heels thudded on the stone floor as he made his way down the corridor, rain dripping from him in sheets, his hand reaching out as he plucked the closest torch from its sconce, dashing it against the wall, plunging the hallway into darkness.


End file.
